Moment by Moment
by SallyJetson
Summary: How important is a single moment?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** It's been a while but here's something that's been inkling around in my brain for a bit. Thanks to **Bluenose** for the help.

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**Moment by Moment**

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**5:45 AM**

Silence. It echoes in the tiny space of his apartment but not in his mind. In his mind is her laughter: suggesting, inviting, even coaxing at first, then amusing and intimating. And his laughter joins hers. But soon hers turns cruel, mocking and spiteful. And his dies. Hers continues, sharpening to a needling point that pricks him until he bleeds. That's when he begins to clean and polish – the metal cold to the touch but, the gleam bright and hot in the light of the lone lamp. This is something he knows and understands – the barrel extending his reach, the butt burrowing securely in his palm, the trigger curling comfortingly around his finger. It is an object he can command, from which he can elicit a desired behavior, obtain concrete results, without fail, time and time again.

And soon she'll know and understand too.

**5:46 AM**

With a toss of her head she flips her hair back over her shoulders, raises her chin to the mirror, puckers then glosses the ruby red skillfully across her lips. She caps the tube, tosses it into her bag then smoothes her hands over curves that fill the standard green and black barista's uniform into a coolly minted lushness. The district manager visits her shop on Thursdays, always arriving in a convertible – an ice blue machine slung low to the ground. She's caught his eyes on her more than once – she gathers her bag and puckers once more to the mirror – soon, it will be more than just his eyes on her. She hurries down the hall. Hearing whimpers as she passes the first door she raps loudly on the second door.

"Ma, the kid's up; I gotta get to work."

**5:52 AM**

She lays Lucy on the bed next to him who bats at his closed eyelids then curls her fingers around his nose. His hand encloses hers, dislodges it gently from his nose and secures it in the crook of his neck. Her tiny legs flail in protest against his stomach and Lindsay nudges his shoulder.

"Danny, I'm on shift soon."

"mmm'kay"

His eyes remain closed but he wraps an arm around the baby, pulling her snug against his chest. A squall erupts from Lucy at her complete confinement.

"Danny, she's up. You have to get up too."

"It's my day off," he mutters as he flops onto his back releasing Lucy to throw an arm over his eyes. Lucy kicks and squeals at her release. Lindsay sits on the bed beside her, holding a palm just above the soles of her feet. Lucy gurgles as she braces and thrusts against the palm.

"What do you think I do on my day off?"

His finger and thumb dig relentlessly into his eyes. Then he props onto an elbow and waves her on.

"I'm up."

**5:54 AM**

He always attracted attention in his dress blues but was rarely conscious of it. That is until now; now, when it's no longer a part of him; now when he looks like any other average Joe on the street – whatever average is in this city. She had loved him in his dress blues, hung on his every word, made him feel as if the moon was his to give to her. And she had made him laugh. That night, he thanked her for that – among other things – then shipped out the next morning for an eighteen month tour.

He's not laughing now.

**5:55 AM**

Ben is waiting outside the shop for her, his tongue lolling and licking across his lips like the loyal puppy dog he is. Tabitha – she calls her Tabby to annoy her – won't arrive until 5:59 and counting which Tabby does, she knows, to annoy her. She unlocks the door, Ben rushes through to switch on the lights and put on the house blend for the regulars. She retrieves the cash drawer from safe in the office, places it into the register then fills the display case with assorted pastries, muffins and bagels. Tabby sails through the door just behind the first regular, Mr. Belmont, who prefers the house blend black, but never fails to leave a tip in the jar when she waits on him. She glares at Tabby then steps up to the counter to wish Mr. Belmont a good morning.

**6:05 AM**

Lindsay checks her watch as she approaches the coffee shop, hurrying on when she sees the time. Pausing at the corner for the signal to change, she about faces and heads back to the coffee shop. Arriving five minutes beyond the start of the shift is nothing compared to arriving punctually but inappropriately caffeinated. She's relieved to see the coffee shop relatively empty as she enters.

Luck is on her side.

**6:06 AM**

He does not hesitate to enter the coffee shop, filing in behind a petite brunette with a hurry in her step. The brunette places her order, pushes money across the counter then steps aside for him. The cash drawer slams shut as she notices him but her words slide out sweetly between her pouted lips.

"Why, Conrad, what brings you around?"

He has never been very good with words, particularly with her, but he never tried as hard with words as he did with her. But words didn't work; now he withdraws the rifle from beneath his coat and cradles it casually in the crook of his arm.

"You brought me around, Bridget."

She wants to laugh at him like she usually does when she wants to unbalance him but that rifle cradled in his arms makes her think twice. Instead she flips her hair over shoulder with an inviting toss of her head and says, "How about a coffee on the house and we go sit over there and talk about it?" nodding towards a table in the corner of the shop next to the window.

Not a muscle twitches as he replies, "It's time to close up shop, Bridget."

Now she laughs and pushes away from the counter. "Are you crazy? I have customers in here and it's coming up on the rush."

It's a single fluid movement that brings the rifle to his shoulder.

**6:09 AM**

A movement like that of the male customer beside her is completely out of place in a coffee shop and yet Lindsay recognizes it instantly for what it is. Her brain fires into assessment mode. At the moment only herself and the barista behind the counter at whom the rifle is aimed are the only ones who seem aware of the situation. To the barista's credit she remains calm as she walks from behind the counter, past the man with the rifle to the door. The man turns in place, the rifle dropping from his shoulder to his waist, his hands remaining positioned for action. He retreats a couple of steps, widening his view to include everyone in the shop. His eyes shift quickly to the service corridor that leads to the toilets and the rear exit then back again. The lock clicks loudly, the light buzz of human conversation falls away to startled silence. A few gasps; one "Oh my God, he's got a gun!" then a jarring metal clatter from behind the coffee counter and the rifle is at shoulder level again.

"Hands up!" A quick jerk of the rifle accompanies his words. "Everyone over there."

Lindsay moves with the others but with backward steps so that she can continue her assessment. The man's calmness at securing the shop and handling hostages—her stomach hurtles upward; she forces it to a halt it with a hard swallow—the way he handles the rifle mark him as a trained user in tense situations, police, maybe military.

The barista starts to move towards the group congregating in the corner. The rifle waves her to a halt. "Not you, Bridget,"

Lindsay makes a mental note of the barista's name.

Bridget's hands whiten in their grip on the chair behind her. "What do you want, Conrad? Tell me what you want. We can work something out I'm sure if you can just tell me what you—"

Now she knows the gunman's name.

"I want you to line those chairs up – one for everyone here."

Bridget turns, pulling chairs from the tables setting them into a sloppy row. Conrad lowers the gun to his waist again and steps forward, nudging the chairs into precise alignment with his foot then steps back, motioning the group to the chairs. They move sluggishly, reluctant to bring themselves closer to a madman with a gun. Lindsay leads the way. She wants to say or do something to reassure them but she doesn't want to call attention to herself. For now, her advantage remains in her anonymity. There are nine of them counting herself, Bridget and Conrad. She sits first then an elderly man, mopping his forehead repeatedly with a crumpled napkin, a middle aged business man whose starched collar is digging into his florid neck, the other two shop employees are next followed by two girls with backpacks, probably university students.

"Hands on your knees. Keep 'em there where I can see them." Seven pairs of hands appear down the line. A cell phone trills and all eyes are on Bridget.

"Who is it?" Conrad demands.

Bridget fumbles at her waist for the phone, drops it, retrieves it. It is the first sign of nervousness that Lindsay has seen from her. Conrad takes the phone from her, checking the display.

"Kevin? Who's Kevin?"

"District manager. He comes in on Thursdays." She reaches for the phone. "In fact I'm expecting him any minute."

He holds it out of her reach. "Bullshit. White-collars don't drag their ass out of bed this early for some—" His fingers tighten around the phone. "You scamming bitch."

The phone falls silent; Bridget drops her hand. "I don't know what you're talking about … really, Conrad," her voice pitching higher, "you're not making any sense."

"I'm not making any sense?" He taps the phone against his chest; the emotion mounts in his voice. "I'm not making any sense? Then why don't you explain—" The cell phone trills again; Conrad checks the display then thrusts it in her face, too close for her to read it. She averts her face, refusing to meet his eyes or acknowledge his accusations, her luscious lips thinned to a furious slash. "Say goodbye to Kevin." He opens his hand; the phone clatters to the floor. He brings the butt of the rifle down on it hard; once, twice, it cracks; another blow and it ruptures and he kicks it aside. There is a small squeal from one the students but Conrad's focus is entirely on Bridget's defiance. "Now, explain it to me … and all these folks sitting here and we'll let them be the judge of who's not making any sense."

This is her chance.

Lindsay slips her hand beneath her jacket, feeling for the phone attached at her waist, switching it to vibrate then carefully feeling the buttons, counting over and down, pressing one button then another. She slithers her hand back to her knee. It's the only thing she can do for now. So for now she waits – and hopes.

**6:15 AM**

Danny shuffles into the kitchen, Lucy propped on his hip, grousing more to keep himself awake than in any real irritation towards Lucy. "… just 'cause your mom's a country girl doesn't mean you have to be one too." Lucy gurgles at the sound of his voice, monkey gripping the back of his t-shirt with one hand, the other reaching for his lips as they move. "But since you're up with the chickens, baby girl, I need coffee. I'll never be able to keep my eyes open and on you if I don't have coffee. And then where will I be?" He grabs the coffee can out of the cabinet. "The doghouse, that's where. Lemme tell you something about being in the doghouse." He pulls the lid off with his teeth shaking the near empty can in frustration. "It sucks." He gently pries Lucy's fingers from their triumphant death grip on his lip. She grunts and stiffens, taking a swipe at his face once he releases her hand. He exaggerates the impact, dipping her low across the ground. She squeals as her swoops her up. "You and I are going out for coffee, baby girl."

**6:16 AM**

Conrad calms himself as he stares at her. She tosses her head; her hair flips behind her shoulders but still she stares resolutely ahead. He knows her silence won't last long; it's not her nature. He lifts the rifle, ingratiating the barrel beneath the heavy curtain of hair hanging down her back, caressing the sleek metal across her neck. Again she tosses her head; he leans in. "You know now that I've had a chance to think about it; I realize what a clever woman you are Bridget. So clever that I want you to share it with everyone here."

Then he hears it, under her breath, but distinctly. "Fuck you, Conrad." A small smile twists his mouth

"Come up here, old man." Conrad gestures to the elderly man as if he were beckoning him over for a friendly chat. There is no inclination to movement from the chair by the elderly man, only agitation in the play of his hands poised on his knees. "I said Move! old man."

The elderly man pushes himself off the chair with one hand and steadies himself with the other on a nearby table. He mops the now tattered napkin across his brow as he shuffles forward. He leans in as he reaches her. "Are you okay, Bridget?"

"You're not here to quiz her about her health, old man, ask her about Garret."

The elderly man looks at the gunman. His hand strays to his forehead again. "I need to sit down."

"Ask her!"

"Bridget … please … who's Garret?"

Bridget stares at Mr. Belmont – rheumy eyes, sagging jowls, incessant wrinkles – probably set for the rest of his life with a fat retirement package but what has he to live for? In a fucking coffee shop every morning of his life, wiling around the hours. Well not her. She has plans. She'll be out of this coffee shop in spite of _…_she condescends Mr. Belmont a reply and Conrad a look, even though she has to look up. "He's _my_ son."

That admission wins her the barrel against her jugular. She can feel the pulsing, the whooshing, the rushing of the life-sustaining vein in glorious defiance of the cold maniacal metal that threatens it. Like the Archduke of Austria. It's the only piece of history she remembers but if she has to die in a coffee shop let it be like the Archduke.

And then she laughs.

He grabs a fistful of her hair, her graceful necking arching beyond bending but her words spewing as they've always spewed. He knew they'd come. And he lets them spew, watching the quavering arch of her neck, the throat muscles convulsing at each word.

"That's right, Conrad. My son! Not yours! Mine! And if you'd stuck to the plan Garrett and I'd be set for life. And when you're set for life … who needs a fucking man?"

He knows then that the noble instrument against her neck is too good for her; it falls away with a clatter and a discharge heard by neither of them as his hands close around her neck, around her neck to cease the spew from her mouth, to cease the pulse of life within her.

**6:19 AM**

Danny wonders at the crowd gathered in front of the Columbia Perkhouse as he emerges from the apartment building. "I don't remember their coffee being that good." He shifts Lucy higher up on his hip as he approaches the crowd. That's when he hears it. There's no mistaking that sound. It registers with some but not others so he hurries toward the crowd, shouting, "Down, down, everyone down." He hears a squall; he pivots sharply towards it then realizes – it's Lucy on his hip.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Here's the end, finally. Thanks again to **Bluenose** for the help.

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**Moment by Moment**

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**6:19:07 AM**

Danny ducks and scurries to wall. Squatting well below window level he begins to inspect Lucy, running a hand along her little body all the while babbling to her in his everyday daddy voice to soothe her. Her hands are curled tightly into his shirt and her face is buried in his neck but other than being frightened she appears to be without cut, scratch or abrasion – and thank god – gunshot wound.

It's only then that he feels for his— Damn! He looks around. The man next to him is energetically relaying the situation into his cell phone. "… listen John, I know a gunshot when I hear one and that's what I heard."

Danny nudges him. "Call 911" Although the man pauses in his conversation, he looks blankly at Danny. "9—1—1— Now!" The man ends his conversation and dials. "Tell them a shot's been fired," Danny instructs as he inches his eyes just above the window ledge. "Tell them there are several hostages …" He cranes his neck. "A man holding a woman in a chokehold and …" He inches a little higher. "And a gunman with— Oh Jesus!"

**6:19:26 AM**

The butt is snug against her shoulder, her cheek warming the stock – even without her training at the Police Academy Lindsay'd know how her way around a rifle. Back in Montana, hunting season was one of the fall highlights after the crops were in. What she wouldn't give to be facing a seven hundred pound elk right now instead of a—the lurch in her stomach causes her finger to wrap firmly around the trigger; the slightest pressure and … but instead she says, "NYPD, Conrad! Let her go!"

Only then is Conrad aware that she's retrieved the rifle, aware of the gleaming shield at her waist winking at him from beneath the lift of her jacket. He quickly shifts the barista around in front of him, his hands adeptly repositioning – one securing her arms behind her, the other clenching at her throat, thumb and forefinger on either side of her larynx. The barista only has time to take a choking breath in the shift before she's struggling for breath again.

"Go ahead … she deserves to die." His mouth twists ever so slightly. "And it'll save me the trouble."

Lindsay knows she'll never be able to cower him into letting the barista go. The only chance she has is to stall him and … then, hopefully with her call to 911… if not, then … she prunes away that thought and says abruptly, "What about your son?"

He turns and spits, the slug of frothing goo hitting the floor with a forgoing finality. "He's not my son." His fingers dig deeper into the barista's throat; her relentless coughing becomes a near silent gag; her body convulses; her feet paw desperately against the floor – anything for a breath of air.

"I want to hear it from her!"

"She's a lying bitch."

"You wanted us to hear it, didn't you? So we could judge for ourselves just what a …." It pangs her to say the words but she says them with clear enunciation hoping that it will carry the conviction. "lying … bitch … she is?"

His mouth twists ever so slightly again and Lindsay lets hers twist in conspiratorial response although her stomach lurches. His fingers ease up but remain poised at the barista's throat, the tears pooling in her eyes finally spill over as she gulps for breath.

And Lindsay releases a breath.

**6:20:17 AM**

Danny grabs the cell phone from the man. "This is Detective Danny Messer. I need a SWAT team on the scene ASAP." He chances another look through the window. "No, no, no one down that I can tell … but there's an officer …" His voice almost fails him. "Officer Lindsay Monroe."

Lindsay Monroe Messer.

"She's secured the weapon but the situation isn't resolved." He looks down at Lucy who's now looking up at him with a tiny pucker between her brows; probably due to the seriousness in his voice. "No, I'm off-duty without my weapon and I have my …" Again he tries to hang onto his voice, "my six month old daughter with me." He scans the crowd and knows he shouldn't, he couldn't, he wouldn't dare hand Lucy off to a complete stranger.

**6:20:24 AM**

"I won't talk until you let me go," Bridget hisses as she tries to jerk out of Conrad's grip; he holds fast.

"Don't you see the woman with the rifle?" Bridget hates his mouth so close to her ear, "Better do as she says," his fingers against her throat, "because she's got the rifle," his hand restraining her arms. She jerks again this time tossing her head and he hikes her arms higher. "Talk!"

"Bridget, how old is your son?"

The tone is firm but neutral and Bridget stares at the woman who issued the question – really looks at her for the first time – definitely not spectacular in looks and so small. Who is she to have a badge let alone be holding a gun? But … she was smart enough to get both so maybe …

"He's five."

"And Garrett is his name?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"I have a daughter who just turned six months old. Her name is Lucy."

"Her father around?"

"That's who she's with now."

"Lucky you. The rutting bastard that planted me with Garrett left me when I was four months along – ducked out too early to pay his share and too late for me to abort."

"Get to the point, Bridget," says Conrad with a quick dig of his fingers into her throat.

She coughs; he relents, but she's not worried about Conrad; she's always been able to handle him and … the woman does have the gun.

She cocks her head, slides her eyes up towards Conrad, slying her smile. "What _is_ the point, Conrad?" She shrugs her shoulders in spite of the pain it causes. "Oh that's right," She intimates to the woman with the gun. "Conrad always wanted a son. One of the last things he told me before shipped out." And she braces as she adds, "And I gave him a son."

"You bitch, he's not my son."

"That's your problem, Conrad. You're too damn picky."

"You scammed me. The pictures; the money; all the promises—"

"And you inhaled it – every single, solitary detail. It kept you sane – you said it yourself – the dust, the heat, the boredom, none of that could take away the fear, the fear of death! Death that could occur at any moment; left for dead with nothing to show for—" She feels her elbows bend beyond what's natural; the pain searing through her shoulders. "Bastard!" Feels his fingers dig deep, pushing her towards the darkness. "I saved—" darkness descending, "your ass—" darkness enveloping, "you owe—" _Me._

Nothing but darkness; she's always been partial to darkness.

**6:21:19 AM**

Danny only ducks below the window to readjust Lucy on his hip when he hears it. He clutches Lucy to him. She begins to squall in protest as he shouts into the phone. "Another shot's been fired. I need backup, NOW!" He inches up, vowing not to lose sight of her again.

**6:21:27 AM**

He's heard it as many times as he's smelled it – and that's too many to count – but he's never felt it, felt the sting of a bullet as it pierces his skin, his muscle, his bone, never felt its leaded weight as it lodges within his body, felt the blood trickle, ooze then spread like a watery pancake on a hot griddle. He's only seen it – seen it too many times to count. And it isn't until the grayish swirl of discharge hovering between him and the woman holding the rifle – his rifle – begins to dissipate that he manages to grit the words out between his teeth, "I'm not afraid to die."

And he's not; regardless of what the lying bitch has said.

"No doubt." The woman is calm, steady, resolved. "But if you don't release her I'll shoot again."

At the moment he believes her resolve, maybe even admires it a little but he knows – from training and experience – that resolve is inversely proportionally to the length of time it has to be held. And he's certainly not concerned in the least about her ability even though she wears a badge. Regardless of which one – resolve or ability –that put the bullet into his shoulder and not between his eyes is the one that he'll play to his advantage.

Effortlessly he shifts a limp Bridget entirely onto his good arm, releasing her hands which allow him to favor his wounded shoulder. The impact of the bullet has dislodged his grip on her throat and he can feel the rise and fall of her chest beneath the arm that is snug beneath one shoulder and wrapped around the other.

The woman speaks; her eyes, as she says, "Let her go and I can get someone to tend to your shoulder," remind him of the eyes of those countless pigeons – the ones that hung around the dusty, barren compound – rampant opportunism disguised by the softest, beguiling brown yet, ineffectual at gaining anything more than carelessly dropped crumbs. But still … still he knows better, he knows better than to release the lying bitch – not yet – not 'til he's gained his way.

And so he says, "I want my say."

**6:22:09 AM**

Time is ticking by too fast but not fast enough for there's no appearance of police support yet she remains poised, restraining danger, safeguarding innocence. His arm aches in empathetic collusion; Lucy squirms but he can't shift her; he has to keep his body between her and the window. Yet he can't abandon the window; he can't abandon her.

**6:22:14 AM**

At first Lindsay stares, only answering, "Alright, have your say," once she sees the rise and fall of the barista's chest.

The only movement is from his lips as he says, "Half a million dollars. I sold a piece of property up on Lake Schenectady – the only parcel still left in my family – sold it for an operation that— that— she said he had to have." Then a muscle begins to work in his jaw. "There was no operation; not one surgical scar on the boy." His eyes – trained on her since she gained the rifle – suddenly leave hers, over to the coffee counter they stray and she has to strain to hear his next words. "A boy four years too old to be my son." And then there is silence … and stillness.

**6:22:27 AM**

The siren peals in the distance, reverberating between the buildings, the increasing frequency heralding help … heralding hope. And the attention of the crowd shifts momentarily, but not his. He maintains his vigil, scrutinizing the postures of the figures within the coffee shop for any shift in the stalemate.

**6:22:39 AM**

Intentionally, her grip firms on the rifle, involuntarily, her voice softens. "Conrad, there's still time, but you have to let her go."

His eyes boomerang; his hand seizes the barista's chin; his wounded arm coils about her waist. "Let her go?"

"Let her go."

"You know how much flinch is left in a dying man?"

She offers no reply.

"Enough to snap a neck."

Her arm almost slackens – almost. "What if I'm a bad shot?"

"Bad enough to miss me," his fingers fan out momentarily across the barista's cheek – almost in a caress. "and hit her?"

And in that moment she wants to squeeze the trigger, to show him that she's capable of more than what he suggests; that she can do now, what the past showed she couldn't do; that there's ample reason for who she's become; but the frequency … the frequency increases … and she cannot ignore what she knows is coming … that she can't squeeze the trigger and take a life that has a chance … a chance to redeem itself … anymore than she can take a life without redemption.

**6:23:07 AM**

Suddenly, instead of the frequency dropping, leveling out to rejoin its source, reassuring that help is here, it wobbles, distorted, unsure of its destination. He clutches Lucy to him; she squalls; he summons his voice to bark into the cell phone until he realizes it's two sirens.

**6:23:19 AM**

He hears the squeal of tires, the slamming of doors, voices shouting.

"Time's up, Conrad."

And he knows she's right.

"Things will go better for you, if you let her go and walk out here of your own accord."

But whatever it is that she considers 'better' he's sure he wants no part of it.

Now the voices are at the door. "NYPD! Open up!"

She doesn't budge.

"Aren't you going to let them in?"

He watches the momentary indecision in her face then while her eyes don't leave his, she throws her voice behind her.

"Someone go open the door."

There is a shuffling from behind her; a body doing her biding crabs sideways around them, hugging the line of tables along the window. Then the body's out of his sight and there is no more time.

"You're right; things will go better if I let her go and walk out of here of my own accord." He shoves Bridget away from him, towards her, turning away as he sees her juggling and scrambling to catch the dead weight that he held so effortlessly.

**6:23:42 AM**

He vows to let the officers handle it, to keep Lucy safe, all the while maintaining his vigil at the window until—

"Around back, around back, he's heading out the back exit."

He closes the gap between himself and the officers urging them into action.

**6:23:48 AM**

With the barista finally situated safely on the floor, she flashes her badge to the entering officers, grabs the rifle and heads towards the rear exit. It's only been a few seconds but …

The door is standing open affording her more coverage to the left but not to the right. He's not to the right but as she peers around the door, she sees him the second the officers enter the alley. He turns to retreat in her direction; she steps full center into the alley and raises the rifle.

"Hands in the air, Conrad; it's over."

The officers echo her instructions, edging ever closer to him as she holds her ground. She watches him inch his hands upwards all the while he scans the alley for some escape.

There is none.

Then the officers are at his back, wrenching his arms downwards into cuffs. She lowers the rifle but only to her waist, follows the officers as they usher him around the building, back into the street. She pauses at the squad car, emptying the rifle, handing it over to the officer after he thrusts him into the backseat.

"Good work." He nods to her shield. "Detective?"

"Munroe"

"Thanks for your help, Detective Munroe."

She turns away then pauses when she hears, "Detective Munroe," issue from the backseat of the squad car. She turns around.

"I'm not the criminal here," he says, his cuffed hands causing him to crouch like any other criminal secured in the backseat of a squad car.

She looks to the rifle now lying across the front seat of the squad car. She thinks of childless parents of the past; thinks of parentless children that could have been, then turns away without another word or glance at him and makes her way through the ordered chaos. Detached, she wanders through it, through a chaos that makes sense – squad cars and ambulances, sirens silenced, their lights still beaconing; police tape restraining the usual passel of curious onlookers; officers calmly eliciting statements from the hostages. But detached … detached … until the barista waves her over from the back of the ambulance where a medic is palpitating her shoulder.

The barista stands, shrugs away the medic's hands. "What happened to him? Did you catch him?"

"We caught him."

"Good, I want the bastard to fry for what he did to me." The bruises on either side of her larynx – the print of a thumb and a forefinger – are sharp, black, incriminating. "I'll file complaints, I'll testify. I'll do whatever it takes."

"What about what you did to him?"

"What I— You have no—"

"Bridget! What happened here?"

"Kevin!"

The barista tosses her hair behind her shoulder, her hand flutters to her neck as she focuses on a more receptive audience.

Detached, she wanders on.

**6:25:00 AM**

Finally he sees her, near the ambulance, he calls to her, hurrying towards her; slowly she turns, her expression momentarily blank. Lucy gurgles and coos, arms outstretched, twisting, struggling, straining against him. Her expression crumples as she wraps Lucy into her arms and he wraps them both into his.


End file.
